


Silver Hand and Red Lightning

by Zdenka



Category: Nibelungenlied
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, M/M, Music, Music as an offensive and defensive weapon, Writing rainbow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23009539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: Hagen and Volker keep watch in front of Etzel's guest-hall, and Kriemhild's robot army is not as effective as she would like.
Relationships: Hagen of Tronje/Volker von Alzey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5
Collections: Writing Rainbow Red





	Silver Hand and Red Lightning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruis/gifts).



> Dear recipient, your prompt for a sci-fi AU was very intriguing. I hope I've done it justice.

The two suns had set over Eztel’s guest-hall, but the courtyard where the two men sat was still well-lit by the many-colored floating lanterns that bobbed gently in the air. Adjusting his metal eyes, Hagen could see the lines of energy keeping them aloft. They were pretty enough, he supposed, but he thought them frivolous. He had analyzed their inner workings while sitting here, and they didn’t even have hidden weapons in them.

His own weapon rested in his lap, held lightly between his two hands, one of metal and one of flesh. It was customary for a cyborg to cover his metal parts with synthetic skin, but Hagen had never seen the need for it. His enemies knew to fear the sight of him by now: his gun grasped in one metallic hand, his eyes that glowed with a deep red light in his silver face were enough to proclaim, ‘Hagen is here.’ Besides, Volker seemed to like it, judging by the way his musician’s fingers traced the scars where metal melded with flesh, and Hagen didn’t care what anyone else thought.

Beside him, Volker idly strummed a quiet chord on his instrument, a graceful frame spanned by metal strings. Volker called it a fiddle, half in jest; he could draw music from it indeed, but its inner workings were as complicated as a fighter’s engine. Red sparks of electricity flew up wherever Volker’s gloved hands touched the strings. Hagen knew those gloves well; many times they had lit sparks along Hagen’s back, whether touching reactive metal or duller flesh. And Hagen’s enhanced eyes could see, though most could not, the fields of vibrant energy that hovered over Volker’s instrument with every chord.

A few hours passed in quiet, while Hagen watched the patterns of Hungary’s constellations and the blinking lights of the occasional satellite overhead. And then a surge of energy caught his attention; someone had entered the anti-gravity shaft of the lift that rose from the courtyard where they sat to the courtyard of Etzel’s own palace behind them. Hagen murmured a quick word of warning to Volker, and they sat in alert silence.

It was Kriemhild. They could see her as she descended, her sleeves and the full skirts of her gown floating around her. She passed through the light of the floating lanterns, banded in jewel-like colors of red and green and blue by turns. Her head was crowned with a circlet of curling silver filigree; judging by the way it glowed with energy to Hagen’s eyes, it was surely not mere jewelry.

Kriemhild stepped lightly out of the lift shaft and came towards them. She spoke no word of greeting.

Hagen and Volker both straightened as she approached. Hagen rested his gun across his other arm, making sure Kriemhild could see the design of the weapon that had once been Siegfried’s. The shining inlay on the handgrip and barrel was beautiful, but the delicate circuits inside were the true treasure. No human hands could match the fine work of the Nibelungs, and their weapons were rare and coveted—all the more so, since the Nibelungs had closed their planet off to outsiders with Siegfried’s death.

Kriemhild raised a hand to touch her circlet. In the distance, Hagen heard the sound of many metal feet striking the ground at once. He smiled grimly. Leaning closer to Volker, he said quietly, “It looks like Etzel gave her the command access to his army.”

“Let them come,” Volker retorted. “I am prepared to play a song in Kriemhild’s honor.”

They waited; Hagen holding his gun, Volker with his gloved hands resting lightly on the strings. Kriemhild waited also, although Hagen’s eyes caught the moment when the shimmer of a forcefield sprang up around her. He supposed she didn’t want to be winged by a stray shot.

And then Eztel’s soldiers were there, filling the courtyard. Unlike Hagen, they were metal and circuits all the way through; they had never been human, and they would obey whatever commands they were given with untiring, emotionless efficiency. Not that it would help them, against Hagen and Volker.

Volker suddenly struck the strings in a bright burst of sound. And then he began to play in earnest, layering chord upon chord while red lightning crackled from his hands. Kriemhild touched her circlet again in outraged disbelief. Her soldiers had stopped moving, frozen in place, as Volker’s music blocked the connections between them and the circlet of command. Hagen could see the electrical fields surging, the savage battle of forces invisible to human sight. It was beautiful, even more so than the red lightning that merely human eyes could see.

Kriemhild drew in her breath to call out a verbal command. Volker’s fingers flew swiftly over his instrument; the sound rose higher in pitch, wailing shrilly and screeching like metal against metal. Kriemhild winced and raised her hands as if to cover her ears. It seemed she thought it would be contrary to a queen’s dignity; she dropped her hands again and raised her chin, giving them a cold glare. She clenched her jaw tightly and attempted to endure the cacophony.

Volker’s tune changed again, becoming faster and livelier, though no less grating. The soldiers swayed on their feet, staggered unsteadily, and toppled to the ground one after another with a series of metallic crashes. Volker ended his song with a final flourish. The sudden silence was almost deafening.

Kriemhild pierced Hagen and Volker with a look of suppressed fury. For a moment Hagen wondered if she might come at them herself, but instead she turned away in a swirl of skirts and rose back up the lift tube, like a hawk that had failed in its strike. She had more plans in reserve, Hagen was certain, but that was for the morrow.

“It seems the Huns don’t appreciate music,” Hagen said.

Volker ran his fingers across the strings in a complicated arpeggio. “Their musical tastes need educating. Perhaps I should give them a concert.”

Hagen smiled darkly. “Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll play them a duet. Double concerto for fiddle and raygun.”

Volker did not answer in words but continued to play, lightly plucked notes that sounded like the fall of rain and the chiming of bells. It was an oddly delicate sound for an instrument that Hagen knew very well could sever people’s heads from their bodies. He fell silent too and listened, watching the red lightning dance around Volker’s fingers. And so the night passed while they kept watch, and the two suns rose.


End file.
